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The Fear in the Question

Recently, I saw a post in an online forum from a veterinarian asking whether pursuing a diagnosis for suspected autism or ADHD could harm their career.

They asked anonymously.

They described themselves as competent, well-regarded by clients, and safe to practise. Yet they were terrified. Terrified of disclosure. Terrified of regulators. Terrified of becoming “unhireable”. Terrified that understanding themselves better might cost them everything they had worked for.

Some replies focussed on the need for personal bravery. Others nitpicked over diagnosis. Very few actually asked why the person felt unsafe. Many with lived experience intuitively understood and provided support. There was discomfort about the poster’s discomfort. Yet the vast majority still framed it as a personal issue, rather than a systemic signal.

This question did not arise in a vacuum. It emerged from a culture that has quietly taught veterinarians to associate difference with risk.

Fear Does Not Come from Nowhere

When professionals ask anonymous questions about their own safety, that tells us something important. Fear like this is not individual pathology. It is learned.

Veterinary medicine teaches a powerful set of unwritten rules long before anyone talks about wellbeing or inclusion. Do not show weakness. Do not slow the pace. Do not ask for changes. Do not draw attention to yourself. Do not give anyone a reason to doubt your fitness.

These messages are rarely stated outright. They are transmitted through training, stories, cautionary tales, and silence. This is the hidden curriculum. What you learn by watching who is praised, who is tolerated, and who quietly disappears.

Over time, many vets internalise a simple equation. Visibility equals vulnerability. Difference equals danger.

So people learn to manage identities, not workloads. They learn to mask, not ask. They learn to endure.

This is Not About Diagnosis

It is about whether veterinary medicine feels safe.

The question was not really “Should I get assessed?”

The subtext loomed far larger:

• Will I be punished for knowing myself?

• Will honesty cost me my livelihood?

• Does difference equal danger in this profession?

• Am I safer staying silent, exhausted, and invisible?

This wasn’t an isolated post. It’s one I have seen many iterations of, both online and in personal conversations - over and over again. Over many years.

When a profession teaches its people to fear self-knowledge, that is not a personal problem. That is a cultural one.

Fear-Based Cultures Teach Silence

In a psychologically safe system, the question would be simple: “How do I get support to work sustainably?”

Instead, the question is framed around risk, surveillance, and punishment. The vet does not ask what accommodations might help. They ask whether they are “at risk”. That tells us something important.

Veterinary medicine has absorbed a quiet but powerful message:

• Disclosure is dangerous

• Adjustments are concessions

• Capacity must look the same for everyone

• Endurance is professionalism

So people mask. They manage identities. They work harder as they struggle more. And eventually, many burn out or leave. Not because they are incapable, but because the system doesn’t offer safe ways to be human.

What Evidence is There that Fear Based Culture is Real?

Recent evidence supports this pattern of silence. A 2023 cross-sectional study published in Frontiers in Veterinary Science found that 36% of veterinary students experienced or witnessed discriminatory behaviour during extra-mural studies (EMS) placements. Yet only 14% of those who experienced or witnessed discrimination reported it.

Put differently, when the numbers are combined, only around 5% of the student body formally reports discriminatory behaviour, despite more than a third encountering it. This means the true scale of discrimination is systematically underestimated, not because it is rare, but because it is unsafe or futile to report.

This pattern extends beyond students. A 2021 British Veterinary Association survey found that 36% of veterinarians had either experienced (15%) or witnessed (21%) discrimination in a workplace or learning environment. Yet only 22% of recent incidents were reported, with witnesses particularly unlikely to report (8%, compared with 22% of those personally affected).

Together with student data, this shows that discrimination is widespread but systematically underreported across career stages. Low reporting reflects fear, futility, or lack of trust, not absence of harm.

Further evidence comes from a UK-wide survey on disability, chronic illness and neurodiversity in veterinary work and education. It found that 81% of managers reported no workplace training on disability or chronic conditions, while understanding of legal rights was low across the profession. Only 11% of respondents felt they had a strong understanding of their rights under the Equality Act 2010, and 25% had no understanding at all, including some employers and managers. Strong understanding was far more common among older veterinarians (20% of those aged 60+ versus 5% of those early in their careers), suggesting that knowledge is acquired through experience rather than taught. This is particularly problematic in a young workforce, where lack of knowledge limits access to adjustments and accelerates burnout. The RCVS has recognised the need for profession-wide education in this area.

The Legal Reality is Not What Most People Think

Here is the part that surprises many vets and unsettles many employers.

Under Australian law, including the Disability Discrimination Act, people do not have to automatically disclose a diagnosis to ask for reasonable adjustments. Adjustments are based on functional need, not labels. Neurodivergence, including autism and ADHD, is covered. Protection does not depend on whether someone uses the word disability or has formal paperwork in hand. Diagnosis is a choice, not a requirement for accomodations.

Instead, a parallel mythology has developed. That you must disclose everything to be safe. That asking for adjustments invites scrutiny. That regulators are waiting to punish. That employers are entitled to personal medical information. That competence must look the same for everyone.

None of this is what the law actually says.

But culture, not legislation, is what people experience day to day. And culture has been allowed to drift far from the legal framework meant to protect people.

The knowledge threshold for adjustments is lower than many employers realise. Legal protection applies when the employer knows, or could reasonably infer a disability or functional limitation. This is why functional disclosure matters even when diagnostic disclosure does not.

Here are some examples of a functional disclosure:

“Background noise and visual movement reduce my concentration and increase fatigue. A quieter workspace or noise-cancelling headphones would help me stay productive.”

“I contribute best when I have time to prepare. Being given agendas or questions in advance helps me participate meaningfully.”

“Sustained high-intensity work without breaks affects my stamina and accuracy. Short, scheduled breaks would support consistent performance across the day.”

Employers can seek clarification or reasonable evidence, but they must still actively engage with the request. A failure to do so may itself constitute discrimination. Good faith engagement includes listening, exploring options, explaining decisions, and considering alternatives where a requested adjustment is not feasible.

Why Misunderstanding Rights Causes Harm

When people do not understand their rights, three things happen.

First, they over-disclose. They share far more personal information than is required because they believe transparency is the only path to safety.

Second, they under-request. They avoid asking for adjustments that would make their work safer and more sustainable, because they fear consequences more than burnout.

Third, they self-select out. They reduce hours, change roles, or leave the profession entirely rather than risk being seen as a problem.

None of this improves patient safety. None of it improves workforce stability. All of it increases attrition.

When a vet believes that needing different conditions to thrive makes them unsafe, the profession loses skilled, thoughtful clinicians who could have contributed for decades with the right supports in place.

The Cost of Silence is Measurable

Veterinary medicine already knows it is losing people.

We talk about burnout. We talk about workforce shortages. We talk about resilience. We talk about recruitment pipelines.

What we talk about far less is how much attrition is driven by fear. Fear of disclosure. Fear of being judged. Fear of being managed out. Fear of regulatory attention. Fear of being labelled difficult rather than supported.

When 38% of veterinarians identify with disability, chronic illness, or neurodivergence, yet fewer than one percent disclose to regulatory bodies, that is not evidence of universal wellness. It is evidence of silence.

Silence has a cost. It shows up as early exits, reduced capacity, and loss of institutional knowledge. It shows up as people leaving not because they cannot do the work, but because they cannot do it safely as themselves.

Awareness without Safety is Not Enough

There has been welcome growth in conversations about neurodivergent, chronically ill and disabled veterinarians. Representation matters. Visibility matters. Naming strengths matters. That said, awareness alone does not create safety.

If we tell people “you belong” without telling them “you are protected”, we leave them exposed. If we celebrate marginalised groups without explaining rights, obligations, and boundaries, we risk reinforcing the very fear we claim to oppose.

People do not just need to be seen. They need to be safe.

The Post Was not a Failure of Confidence

It was a rational response to an unclear system.

When professionals fear diagnosis, fear disclosure, and fear asking for what they need, the problem is not fragility. It is design. Fear-based cultures produce careful, silent, exhausted people. They reward those who can endure and quietly shed those who cannot.

That is not resilience. It is attrition.

Why This is not Taught, and Why it Must Be

Veterinary education teaches anatomy, pharmacology, ethics, and communication.

It rarely teaches employment law, discrimination protections, or the practical meaning of reasonable adjustments.

As a result, vets graduate fluent in clinical risk, but illiterate in legal protection.

Employers often learn by imitation rather than training. They replicate what they experienced. They rely on instinct rather than obligation. Many genuinely believe they are doing the right thing while unintentionally reinforcing fear.

Teaching rights and obligations would change this. We need to talk, plainly and calmly, about:

• Disclosure as a choice, not a requirement

• Reasonable adjustments as standard practice, not special treatment

• Capacity as something supported, not tested through suffering

Until we do, vets will keep asking anonymous questions late at night, wondering whether knowing themselves better is a risk they can afford to take. And that should trouble all of us.